•Buah.B.M 


FROM 

WITHIN  ONE 
HEART 


Literature  Department  of  the  Woman's  Bocurd 
of  Home  Missions  of  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
One  Hundred  and  Fifty-six  Fifth  Ave.,  NewYork 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Columbia  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/fromwithinoneheaOObush 


From  Within  One  Heart 


‘•Do  I tiud  my  work  iuterestiug?  Do  1 
have  experiences  ? Will  1 tell  you  one  ? ' 

I often  wonder  If  you  who  know  nothing 
personally  of  mission  work  in  Utah  ever 
dream,  as  you  sit  buried  in  the  leaves  of 
some  fashionable  novel,  that  we  who  are  on 
the  field  read  stories  far  more  thrilling,  since 
they  are  written  on  hearts — not  paper:  hear 
tales  from  lips  that  quiver  in  the  telling. 
You  giris  who  love  to  become  “deeply  inter- 
ested,” “iost  to  the  worid”  in  popuiar  fiction, 
did  you  look  for  it,  could  find  in  real  life 
tragedies  that  would  thrill  and  fascinate  as 
can  never  printed  page  of  the  most  gifted 
author.  I try  to  forget  them.  It  hurts  so  to 
bear  in  your  own  heart  these  deep  wounds 
of  others ; but  some  I cannot  forget.  One  in 
particular  comes  to  me  now,  which  I think 
you  wiil  consider  an  “experience.” 

You  know  we  do  things  in  a very  primitive 
way  out  there  in  our  mission  work.  I was 
the  only  teacher  at  our  station,  and  had  to 
serve  as  janitor  as  vveil  in  the  little  log 
house  in  which  we  held  our  school.  As  1 
closed  the  door  on  my  labor  one  evening, 
after  what  had  seemed  to  me  a particularly 
trying  and  unprofitable  day,  one  of  my  little 
scholars  slipped  her  hand  into  mine,  begging 
me  to  come  with  her — her  mother  was  very 
sick  and  had  asked  for  me.  I went  gladly — 
it  seemed  so  good  to  be  wanted.  We  make 
the  most  of  these  openings,  for  it  is  often 
as  hard  to  get  into  houses  in  Utah  as  it  is  in 
China.  Moilie,  a winsome  little  maiden  of 
perhaps  eight  summers,  trudged  along  beside 
me,  her  brown  eyes  overflowing  with  tears 


3 


as  she  told  me  how  sick  poor  mother  was, 
how  long  she  had  been  in  bed,  how  thin  her 
poor  hands  were,  and  all  the  items  of  ill- 
ness, which  had  evidently  been  closely  ob- 
served by  this  small  woman. 

When  we  reached  the  little  dingy  home  in 

the  outskirts  of  AI I was  met  at  the  door 

by  an  old  woman,  bent  with  years  and  very 
feeble,  who  pointed  me  on  to  a room  in  the 
rear  with  a sad  shake  of  her  head.  “What 
is  the  matter  ? “ 1 asked.  ‘ She  is  d^  in’ — yes, 
dyin’.’’  “Has  she  been  ill  long?”  “I  don’t 
call  it  ill,  ma’am,  not  rightly  ill ; she’s  just 
a dyin’  of  a broken  heart  and  plural  mar- 
riage,” and  with  another  sad  shake  of  the 
head  the  poor  woman  hobbled  away,  while  I 
stepped  into  the  other  room.  There,  on  a 
wretched  bed,  lay  a poor,  sick  creature,  whose 
black  eyes  gazed  out  at  me  from  her  pallid 
face  with  the  piteous  look  of  some  wounded 
animal.  Wistful,  sad,  heartbroken,  their  own- 
er lay  dying  indeed,  as  the  old  woman  had 
said,  of  a broken  heart  and  plural  marriage. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  story  I learned  from  the 
poor  lips,  only  a few  words  at  a time,  gasped 
out  as  she  found  breath.  I can  make  it 
plainer  to  you  than  it  was  to  me  then,  for 
later  I learned  much  from  the  old  woman. 

“And  so  you  have  come,  ma’am ; Mollie 
said  you  would.  You  would  have  been  glad 
to  come  before?  Yes,  ma’am ; Mollie  said 

that,  too,  but but I couldn’t  see  you 

then.  I didn’t  wan’t  you,-  ma’am,  until  I 
knew  the  end  had  come — the  end  of  every- 
thing for  me.  Not  yet,  you  hope?  Oh,  yes, 
ma’am;  not  long  now  to  the  end.  But  don’t 
think  I’m  grievin’,  ma’am — only  jest  for  the 
little  Mollie — I’d  be  glad  to  go  but  for  the 
little  one;  and  perhaps  if  you’ll  listen  to  me, 
ma’am,  it’ll  be  best  for  her,  too.  Let  me 


4 


tell  you  what  has  been  In  my  heart  aud  kept 
there  all  these  years — for  I couldn’t  tell  It 
before.  Perhap.s  I may  tell  you ; It  takes  me 
so  long,  but  oh!  be  patient — let  me  tell  at 
last  my  story  and  ease  my  heart. 

“Don’t  think,  ma’am,  I was  always  like 
this.  Years  ago,  ages  ago.  It  seems,  I was  a 
red-cheeked  English  lassie,  as  pure  in  thought 
as  you  are  yourself,  ma’am ; and.  Indeed,  I 
tried  to  be  good.  Mother  always  said  I was 
her  comfort.  Thank  God  that  He  took  her 
before  she  saw  me  ■ come  to  this ; that,  at 
least,  I can  be  thankful  for — little  else.  Oh, 
ma’am,  you  ought  to  thank  God  every  day 
of  your  life  that  your  religion  can  never 
make  the  shameful  thing  of  you  that  I am. 
That  Is  my  load.  I am  dyln’,  ma’am.  Only 
a few  days  more  and  I shall  be  out  of  a 
world  where  for  years  I have  crept  along, 
hidin’  my  face  lest  some  who  looked  might 
see  my  shame.  For  you  know,  ma’am.  It  could 
never  seem  like  marriage  to  me.  It  will 
soon  be  over  now.  What  a beautiful  place 
Heaven  must  be — you  know,  ma’am,  they 
don’t  marry  there. 

“Did  I tell  you  that  I was  once  young  and 
pure  and  fresh  as  yourself?  Just  mother 
and  I In  dear  old  England.  We  were  so 
poor!  Father  was  gone.  And  then,  one 
day,  a man  came  from  far  away  and  told  us 
of  America — how  easy  It  was  to  live  there — 
homes  for  everybody,  plenty  to  eat  and  wear, 
people  so  kind  that  they  had  sent  him  after 
all  the  poor  and  discouraged;  they  had 
homes  jest  waitin’  for  them ; they  wanted 
women  especially,  as  they  did  not  have  many 
to  do  the  work  In  the  new  country?  It 
seemed  so  good!  Mother  and  I had  naught 
to  keep  us;  others  besides  us  were  going — 
men  and  women,  too,  my  own  aunt  and  her 


5 


husband — so  we  came  away.  I can  see  it  all 
now ; the  neighbors  coming  to  help  us  o£E 
with  little  gifts  and  hearty  good-byes.  The 
dear  old  home — poor,  ma’am,  but  honest,  not 
stained;  the  old  mooley  cow  in  the  sweet 
meadow  grass,  browsing  along  home  that 
last  night,  her  tinkling  bell  seeming,  In  the 
dewy  twilight,  to  say  to  me,  ‘Good  bye ! good- 
bye!’ and  it  was  good-bye,  had  I only  known 
It;  good-bye  to  all  that  made  life  dear — 
youth,  happiness,  honor. 

“Mother  died  on  the  way  over — it  was  so 
hard  then — such  an  awful  grief  that  I knew 
nothing  worse  could  ever  be.  Yet  In  six 
months  I rejoiced  that  she  had  left  me. 

“How  big  and  rich  your  country  looked  to 
me,  little  lass  that  1 was,  barelv  sixte^'n, 
ma’am ! First  we  reached  New  York,  then 
traveled  by  train  for  days  and  days  and  days. 
How  glad  I was  when  at  last  they  said  we 
were  nearly  home!  Did  they  call  It  home? 
They  ought  to  have  said  ‘hell.’ 

“Aunt  and  I were  soon  busy  settling  down 
In  the  new  place,  which  was  a little  farm  out 
from  Salt  Lake  City.  Uncle  went  often  to 
the  city,  while  aunt  and  I kept  pretty  close 
at  home.  Sometimes  an  elder  came  to  teach 
us  our  new  faith — not  a hard  one  to  believe, 
ma’am,  for  you  see  we  thought  If  their  relig- 
ion had  taught  them  to  send  way  off  for  us, 
and  bring  us  to  that  beautiful  country  and 
give  us  such  a start  in  life.  It  must  be  from 
God. 

“The  first  cloud  was  when  uncle  began  to 
change  so — stayed  away  so  much.  But  he 
said  the  new  faith  made  him  give  much  of 
his  time  to  other  things;  so  we  managed 
along  without  him.  But  then  he  grew  so 
surly;  he  had  always  been  kind,  and  poor 
aunt  hardly  knew  how  to  bear  It.  Poor 


6 


soul ! there  was  more  to  come.  Uncle  stayed 
away  more  and  more.  When  he  came  he 
often  brought  an  elder  with  him,  who  talked 
long  with  him  after  we  had  gone  to  bed — an 
ugly  old  man  I thought  him — Elder  Graves. 

“When  the  winter  was  well  over  and  a 
beautiful  spring  had  come,  uncle  took  me  to 
town  one  day  to  a large  house  where  were 
six  elders,  among  them  Elder  Graves.  I 
was  almost  afraid;  they  seemed  so  solemn, 
and  I did  not  know  why  they  wanted  me 
until  Elder  Graves  said  that  they  had  had  a 
revelation,  that  I must  be  sealed  to  him — 
married  to  him.  ‘But,’  I said,  ‘I  don’t  want 
to  marry  you ! I don’t  like  you ! You  are 
too  old  and  I am  so  young.  I’d  rather  stay 
with  aunt.’ 

“Uncle  sided  with  the  elders,  gruffiy  telling 
me  to  stop  my  nonsense  and  listen  to  the 
revelations  of  the  authorities  or  It  would  be 
worse  for  me.  When  aunt  Joined  her  voice 
and  said  she  was  afraid  for  me  longer  to  say 
no,  I gave  up.  Why,  ma’am,  I was  only  a 
child.  I remember  well  that  aunt  and  I 
had  to  let  down  my  dresses  that  very  spring, 
but  In  a week  from  that  time  I was  taken 
to  the  Endowment  House  and  married  to 
Elder  Graves. 

“Well,  young  hearts  soon  rebound.  I was 
a child ; he  was  kind.  He  bought  me  pretty 
clothes,  saying  such  a color  and  figure  de- 
served setting  off.  In  a few  weeks  we 
started  for  our  home  In  the  country. 

“You  have  been  In  Salt  Lake,  ma’am.  You 
know  the  little  road  that  winds  out  by  Fort 
Douglass.  It  was  a pretty  road  that  morn- 
ing. I can  hear  now  the  water  rippling 
through  the  streets  of  the  city,  and  Elder 
Graves  said  Just  such  a stream  flowed 
through  the  meadow  of  my  new  home,  where 


T 


a mooley  cow  was  waiting  for  me  to  milk 
her.  1 remember  turning  around  to  look 
back  at  the  great  dome  in  the  distance  as  we 
rode  away,  and  the  temple  which  was  build- 
ing near  by ; at  the  long  lines  of  trees  in  the 
city ; at  the  sweet  fields  around  us  along 
the  little  streams,  while  over  all  hung  the 
guns  of  Fort  Douglass  beyond.  It  was  beau- 
tiful to  me.  It  had  begun  to  seem  very  sweet 
to  be  going  to  my  own  home,  a little  cottage 
In  the  trees,  he  said.  After  a ride  of  many 
miles  he  pointed  out  to  me  the  little  houses 
which  nestled  at  the  foot  of  the  blue  distant 
mountains,  and  among  them  my  home. 

“ ‘Do  others  live  here?  other  families?  Do 
you  rent  to  them?’  I asked. 

“ ‘Well,  not  exactly — hum ! You’ve  a heap 
to  learn.  Sallie,  and  I’m  afraid  you’re  one  to 
take  It  hard — most  of  the  new  ones  do.  But 
you’ll  settle  down  to  It  after  a while.  They 
all  do.  Now,  here  we  are;  Jump  down.’  Sev- 
eral women  and  children  had  swarmed  about 
us  as  we  stopped.  ‘Now  this  Is  wife  Eliza- 
beth. this  is  wife  Caroline,  this  wife  Mona.’ 

“ ‘But  whose  wife,  elder?’ 

“ ‘Why,  mine,  Sallie.’ 

“ ‘What  do  you  mean?  Am  I not  your 
wife?’ 

“ ‘Yes.  but  so  are  the  rest  of  them.  You 
see,  you  hadn’t  happened  to  hear  that  plural 
marriage  was  part  of  the  faith — delivered  to 
our  blessed  prophet.  We  all  have  as  many 
wives  as  we  can  take  care  of.’ 

“ ‘But  you  can’t  have  me  If  you  have 
others;  It  Isn’t  decent  I won’t  stay;  take 
me  back  at  once.  What  do  you  mean?’ 

“Only  mocking  laughter  greeted  my  cries 
as  he  slowly  unharnessed  the  horses.  ‘Well, 
now,  Sallie,  It’s  a long  way  back — too  fur  to 
walk ; all  the  houses  we  have  passed  have 


8 


plural  wives  just  like  you.  There  ain’t  no 
help  and  no  way  out  Have  your  little  fling. 
You’re  prettier  than  ever  when  you’re  mad. 
You  ain’t  well  grounded  in  the  faith  yet’ 

“ ‘Take  me  back  to  my  uncle,  you  wicked 
man;  I won’t  stay  here.’ 

“ ‘Your  uncle,  you  fool,  has  sealed  three 
wives  since  he  came,  and  had  a powerful 
revelation  about  you,  but  I got  ahead  of  him. 
Men  learn  the  new  religion  quicker  than 
women.’ 

“Oh,  ma’am ! think  of  me — young,  help- 
less, penniless,  thousands  of  miles  from  home 
— none  such  as  you  to  call  on — knowing  al- 
ready that  a little  one  would  some  day  share 
my  shame.” 

Here,  overcome  by  grief  and  tears,  the 
poor  soul  sank  back  exhausted.  Only  the 
sweet  words  of  “Safe  in  the  Arms  of  Jesus” 
could  calm  her  distress,  and  when  she  slept  I 
slipped  away,  promising  to  return  and  spend 
the  night. 

When  I came  again  to  the  little  home  she 
was  still  asleep,  but  the  old  woman  was  glad 
to  join  my  vigil,  and  from  her  I learned 
much.  She  was  the  aunt  of  whom  the  poor 
girl  had  told  me,  with  troubles  enough  of  her 
own  to  bear.  She  had  found,  not  long  after 
her  niece  had  left  her,  that  her  husband  had 
other  and  younger  wives,  and  had  left  him — 
fortunately  having  enough  to  buy  a poor 
little  home.  Being  old  and  feeble,  she  had 
not  -herself  been  troubled  with  revelations  or 
elders,  but  had  lived  out  her  hard  life,  curs- 
ing the  plural  marriage  which  had  caused 
all  her  trouble. 

At  the  time  when  our  National  Govern- 
ment passed  the  law  prohibiting  polygamy 
many  besides  her  niece  were  turned  out  of 
their  homes  in  seeming  obedience  to  the  new 


9 


law.  Footsore,  and  even  then  ill  of  the 
malady  which  was  soon  to  conquer  her,  the 
niece  had  arrived  at  her  humble  door  with  a 
little  child — had  never  seemed  until  lately  to 
be  just  right  in  her  head — had  talked  much 
of  a cruel  man  who  had  abused  her  and 
laughed  at  her  grief — had  said  that  she  had 
run  away,  and  he  hated  her  so  that  he  would 
not  come  after  her,  now  that  she  was  broken 
down  and  miserable.  They  had  lived  as  best 
they  could  with  the  little  work  they  could 
get  to  help  them. 

The  invalid  awakened  after  midnight  and 
smiled  sadly  at  me.  “Oh,  ma’am,  here  yet? 
I didn’t  tell  you  all,  ma’am.  I can’t  go  till  I 
do.  Ob.  ma’am,  I did  Jest  as  he  said  I 
would.  I settled  down,  but  it  was  only  that 
I had  no  strength  to  go  on.  The  heart  within 
me  fought  just  as  hard  as  ever.  I was  put 
to  work  by  wife  Caroline ; she  was  deep  in 
the  faith,  and  thought  that  she  and  all  of  us 
were  ouly  fulfilling  our  destinies  when  we 
were  sealed  to  Elder  Graves.  You  can 
imagine  that  it  was  hard  to  live  there,  where 
every  one  quarreled  so — bickerings  all  the 
time  among  the  wives  as  well  as  the  children. 
You  know,  ma’am,  it  couldn’t  be  otherwise. 
While  woman  has  woman’s  heart,  to  share 
her  husband  with  others  is  to  nurse  jealousy 
and  hatred.  That  never  hurt  me.  I couldn’t 
love  the  brute  who  had  ruined  me,  body  and 
soul,  and  who,  because  I was  younger,  and 
perhaps  prettier  than  the  old  wives,  seemed 
to  delight  in  tormenting  them  through  me — 
and  I had  to  pay  for  it.  They’ll  tell  you  that 
plural  wives  live  in  harmony  and  peace,  but, 
ma’am,  how  could  they?  Well,  by  and  by, 
I became  outwardly  like  Caroline  and  Eliza- 
beth and  Mona.  Maybe,  when  one  is  trained 
to  the  faith  from  childhood,  it  becomes  easier. 


10 


But  it  never  grew  easy  for  me ; and  when  my 
first  baby  came,  oh,  the  shame  of  it!  the 
bitter  shame!  I was  glad  when  it  died;  it 
was  a girl,  ma’am,  and  1 was  glad  to  put  it 
where  it  could  never  know  what  I knew — 
feel  what  I felt.  I think  Elder  Graves  tried 
to  be  kind  at  first,  but  I hated  him  so  that  I 
finally  wore  out  his  patience.  I faded  so,  too, 
all  my  pretty  color  gone.  Blows  and  curses 
were  added  to  my  lot.  You  see,  ma’am,  it 
was  almost  more  than  a woman’s  heart  could 
bear,  and  I wore  away  so. 

“And  now,  oh,  ma’am ! I come  to  the  end 
of  my  story.  I lie  here  thinking  of  my  girl 
life  in  England,  and  I look  at  little  Mollie. 
Oh,  ma’am,  will  you  save  her  for  me?  Don’t 
let  her  know  what  I am ! Don’t  let  her  be 
what  I have  been!  You  hardly  dare  promise? 
You  are  not  yourself  able?  Oh,  ma’am,  you 
can,  you  must!  I can’t  die  and  leave  her  to 
such  a life  as  mine.  I couldn’t  rest  In  my 
grave  if  I knew  she  was  what  I had  been. 
Oh,  ma’am,  now  that  you  know,  you  must 
say  yes.  There  are  so  many  rich  in  your 
great  country,  some  one  will  take  her.  Your 
song  says  ‘the  land  of  the  free’ — but  she 
can’t  be  free  here ; I wasn’t  free,  I was  the 
worst  sort  of  a slave;  there  are  none  lower 
than  I.  Don’t  let  Mollie  be  like  me!  Save 
her  from  plural  marriage.” 

What  could  I say.  Only  my  promise  could 
quiet  the  poor  soul,  already  showing  signs  of 
the  end  for  which  she  longed.  She  lingered 
for  several  days.  When  I could  I was  with 
her,  and  her  eyes  followed  me  always — her 
lips  whispered  until  the  last,  “Remember 
Mollie.”  She  smiled  sweetly  when  the  verses 
and  songs  she  loved  lulled  her  to  sleep,  and 
always  said,  “Mollie,  too,  she  will  be  there. 
You’ll  save  her.”  Sometimes  the  thought  of 


11 


others  would  disturb  her  peace.  “So  many 
little  girls,  but  one  Is  safe.  You  promised — 
tell  others.”  After  one  very  restless  night, 
when  the  gray  dawn  was  slipping  down  the 
mountalus,  she  passed  away,  and  It  came 
about  that  her  last  words  were,  “Tell  others." 
Perhaps  He  meant  It  to  be  thus.  So  when  I 
have  a chance,  as  now,  to  tell  this  heart 
story,  I gladly  do  so,  handing  on  to  others 
the  legacy  which  I had  from  those  dying 
lips — 

“Mollle  Is  safe — but  there  are  others.” 

P.  M.  Bush 


Price— 2 cents  each;  |l.S0per  hundred 
No.  17T-8th  Ed.— I,  1907. 


